


unadmirable plans.

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets. [20]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Fanmix, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where should we go next?" </p><p>On the surface, Stiles and Derek look like two ordinary guys taking a cross-country road trip together.</p><p>But unlike most other people, the path of their road trip is littered with the bodies they've left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unadmirable plans.

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in tandem with a fanmix of the same name, which can be found on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/doctorkaitlyn/unadmirable-plans). (: the tumblr post can be found [here.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/post/119313324773/unadmirable-plans-a-road-trip-playlist-for-stiles)
> 
> title from the song [Me Vs. Maradona Vs. Elvis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LllchE03xRk) by Brand New, which was one of the songs I cut from the playlist. unbeta'ed, any and all mistakes are mine alone.

In a motel five miles from the interstate, the hot water has abruptly stopped working. Derek hardly notices. He's used to it now. It seems to be a rule that all shitty motels must have terrible hot water heaters and equally terrible wallpaper. 

But he's glad that Stiles has already showered. _He's_ the one who likes to complain about the freezing cold water. 

Once the water pooling at the bottom of the tub starts to run clear, Derek turns the shower off. He rubs a towel over his hair, ties another around his waist and steps into the main room. Stiles is facing away from him, dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp and mussed up. He's bent over slightly, palms flat against the top of the dresser. His shirt is tight across his broad shoulders and it's pulled up at the bottom, exposing a sliver of pale skin and narrow hips. 

Derek stops for a few moments, just to appreciate the view. They may have satisfied one kind of hunger only two hours ago, but Derek can already feel another kind starting to stir, low in his stomach. 

“Where should we go next?” Stiles asks, not turning around. 

“I don't know.” Derek crosses the room, damp feet leaving faint footprints on the thin, ugly carpet, and winds his arms around Stiles' waist. 

“ _You're_ the navigator,” he adds, peering over Stiles' shoulder. There's a massive, well worn map of the western part of the country spread across the top of the dresser. It's littered with post-its and notes scrawled in Stiles' nearly incomprehensible handwriting. Stiles' hands are resting in the middle of California and on the edge of Utah and his fingers are drumming softly, like he's deep in thought. 

“I'm aware of that,” Stiles says. Even if Derek can't see Stiles' eye-roll, he can hear it perfectly fine. “I just thought that you might like to pick for once.” His hips subtly press backwards, brushing against the front of Derek's towel. Derek knows it's the furthest thing from an accident. In response, he presses even closer to Stiles' back, squinting to make out some of the tiny notations on the map. 

“I don't remember that place,” Derek says, pointing to a tiny dot on the map, near Stiles' left index finger. There are three faded letters written next to it: _DE, S._

“That was our eighth together,” Stiles murmurs quietly. “Deucalion. Remember?” Stiles turns and hops up onto the dresser, map crinkling underneath him. He hooks his ankles around the back of Derek's knees and tugs him closer. 

“It was in that really shitty bar. The one that _reeked_ of nicotine,” Stiles continues, resting his hands on Derek's hips. His voice has dropped lower than usual, low enough to make that hunger in Derek's stomach grow even stronger. “Small guy, looked like he hadn't shaved in a few weeks. He was sitting at the end of the bar, staring at the television, totally wasted. Only took a few sentences to convince him to follow me outside.” 

“I remember,” Derek mutters, smoothing his palms up Stiles' thighs. He remembers all the times where Stiles has used his wicked smile and promises to lure people. He accepts that sometimes, Stiles' razor sharp wit and bright eyes can be the best weapons they have, but accepting something doesn't mean he has to like it. Not at all. 

“As soon as he laid a hand on me outside,” Stiles says, taking one of Derek's hands and laying it against his cheek, “you stepped out of the shadows, wrapped your fingers around his neck and squeezed.” Derek remembers now; not specific facts, per se, but he remembers _feelings_. 

The feeling of warm blood dripping over his fingers, of booted heels kicking back against his shins, of filthy nails scratching at the back of his hands. He remembers the sheer high that had coursed through his veins as the life drained from the man's body, remembers the _hunger_ that had spiked in his stomach when he'd looked at Stiles' dark, feral eyes. 

That hunger is back in full force. But when he leans in towards Stiles' mouth, Stiles turns at the last moment, so that Derek's mouth only brushes along the line of his jaw. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” he growls, tightening his grip on Stiles' thigh. 

“Pick somewhere first,” Stiles replies, turning again and pressing a hard, lingering kiss to the palm that's still pressed against his cheek. He tightens his legs around Derek's waist, but when Derek leans in again, he moves away once more. “Pick where we should go next.” Derek groans in frustration, but he stares down at the map, all too aware of the heat rolling off Stiles' body. Stiles is covering up all of Nevada, Utah and Arizona but after a moment, Derek sees a small dot in Wyoming that seems to be calling to him. The dot is so tiny that he can't even read the name of the town it signifies, but he just _feels_ that it's where they're meant to go next. 

“There,” he says, sliding his hand off Stiles' thigh and tapping the dot. Stiles hums approvingly and grabs a pen from behind him. He circles the dot three times before he tosses the pen across the room, in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Perfect,” he says with a grin, fumbling his shirt over his head and tossing it across the room as well. The lamplight illuminating the room makes the scars dotting Stiles' chest look like they're glowing and Derek runs his fingers over one of the larger one, a puckered white line running vertically just above Stiles' navel. Stiles groans softly and scoots to the edge of the dresser. 

“You can kiss me now,” he murmurs, winding his arms around Derek's neck. 

The words have barely left his mouth before Derek does just that. 

They don't make it to the bed. By the time they're finished, there are fresh scratches thrumming along Derek's arms and shoulders. There's a purple bite on Stiles' shoulder and Derek wouldn't be surprised if there was a bruise or scrape just above his ass, from the edge of the dresser digging in. 

Their map is ruined, ridden with rips and tears, marred with dots of water and sweat. Some of the ink is smeared, rendering a few letters to illegible blurs. Derek expects Stiles to explode but instead, he shrugs and taps the tiny dot that marks their next destination. 

“It's fine. It's all up here too,” he says, pointing to his head. “Besides, we needed a change anyways.” He pulls Derek down into another kiss, one that seems to last forever and leaves Derek's mouth tasting like copper pennies. 

“What do you think about the Midwest?” he asks when he pulls away, fingers locked tightly in Derek's hair. 

“Never been,” Derek answers truthfully, rubbing his thumb over another one of Stiles' scars. This one is on the top of his thigh and, unlike most of the others, it was self-inflicted. “But I've heard that it's boring.” 

“Well then,” Stiles murmurs. The grin spreading across his face is both chaotic and beautiful, so beautiful that Derek wants to devour it so that no one else can ever see it. Stiles leans back slightly and reaches between his legs, grabbing the top drawer of the dresser. He opens it just wide enough for it to bump into Derek's legs and when he sits back up straight, the keys for their car are dangling from his fingertips. 

“Let's go bring them some excitement.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
